The Last Horseman (8 page)

For a moment Radcliffe thought he might have walked into a trap. It was well known that Kingsley spoke out against the Fenians, and should there be any animosity towards Radcliffe it would not be difficult to have a man killed and his body disappear. He quickly dismissed the wild imaginings. When Kingsley offered the flask of brandy, Radcliffe took it and let the warmth from the liquid seep into his chest. Kingsley nodded, pleased that the man had not kept him at arm’s length. He did not wipe the silver flask’s spout when he put it to his lips.

Kingsley’s attention had wandered across that darkened ring. ‘In my father’s time there was only one registered thoroughbred saddle horse in America. My daddy bought from that stock and bred from it. There’s limestone under the grass here, it gave the offspring bones like iron and the constitution of a steam train.’

It seemed the burly Irishman nourished himself with the pride of what his father had achieved in the Irish stud business. Radcliffe stayed silent, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. There was that movement again. He concentrated and the shadow seemed to quiver. A sliver of light caught the reflection of a horse’s eye.

Kingsley barely moved his head as he checked whether Radcliffe had seen it or not. The horse stood stock-still. It was watching them. Kingsley made a barely audible sound and out of the darkened stall stepped the most magnificent horse Radcliffe had ever seen.

‘Now this is the fella I was talking about. He’s stronger, faster and tougher than your American saddle horse. He’ll burst his heart for a good horseman. There isn’t a man with enough money to buy this horse, and my God they’ve tried.’

Radcliffe watched as the uncouth Irishman reached out his hand and the horse stepped forward to nuzzle it. It was obvious to Radcliffe that there was a bond of love between the sharp businessman and his pride and joy.

‘This is a horse that only a Valkyrie could ride,’ Kingsley said. And looked at Radcliffe, waiting for the obvious question to be asked.

‘What do you want, Kingsley? You’re no friend of mine.’

‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can offer,’ Kingsley said. This time Radcliffe refused the offered flask. ‘When Colonel Baxter and his glorious Royal Irish Regiment of Foot get on that boat to go and fight in this damned silly war, you will not have the friendship of anyone in authority or influence.’

‘And you are offering yours?’

‘Why not?’

‘In your pocket, you mean. Evidence in a case I’m defending goes missing. A mistrial here or there. All to make the way clear for you to do whatever scheme you’re wallowing in.’

‘Listen, Radcliffe, the world is what you make of it. The English Queen is coming to these very shores in April, and I’ve got the contract for building the pier at Kingston for the royal yacht. I’m making a small fortune out of the Office of Public Works. I’m a man of influence and I pay people for information. Scraps turn into banquets, Radcliffe. You get to hear things in your line of work. Just a snippet here and there.’

‘I’m not for sale, Kingsley. Now if you’ll excuse me, my son’s riding this morning.’

‘I could give your boy this race. I could buy off every one of those adventuring bastards. He would win and you would have my horse.’

As if on cue, the horse snuffled Radcliffe’s hand. Radcliffe ran his hand along the silky black cheek and down on to the muscled shoulder. There was no denying the strength and beauty of the horse that towered above both men.

Radcliffe patted it one more time. ‘You have nothing I want,’ he said.

‘Oh, you want him – it’s just that you’re not prepared to pay the asking price. It’s a pity. I thought we could do business. It would have benefited us both. But there it is. No harm in my offering, Radcliffe.’

‘And none, I hope, in my refusing.’

‘Agh. Honourable men.’ Kingsley laughed. ‘Jesus, what a pain in the arse you are. Still... someone has to be. Right, let’s be off and see who’s going to take my hundred guineas today.’

*

Traces of intermittent rain whipped across the low hills, making the couple of dozen horsemen steady their mounts as bookmakers shouted their odds over the wind. The chilled weather would never stop money changing hands as rich and poor vied to gamble. Horse racing was the great leveller. Those from the poverty-stricken areas would never use a racquet on the Rathgar courts, or clutch the leather of a rugby ball. Those sports were for the wealthy young men who visited the illegal cockfights in the working-class area of Blackpitts. But horseflesh at the gallop was as free as the soot-clogged air they all breathed.

The riders fussed about their horses, mostly hunters used for pursuing a wily fox or inexhaustible stag. A snaffle tweak here, a stirrup length pulled and checked. Saddles were rocked back and forth. Last-minute fidgeting before the riders hoisted themselves into the leather. Most wore shirt and jodhpurs; the sweat of exertion would soon cling anything heavier to their skin. Belmont was on the far side of the riders, relaxed, smoking a cheroot, his horse nibbling the cropped grass. Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Marsh shared a silver flask with him. None of them sought out the black man standing with the boy.

‘You wearing an undershirt like I told you?’ Pierce asked Edward, who shivered as he held the reins. The boy nodded. The New Year weather added to his nerves.

‘I’m not really cold. Well, a little.’

‘It’s not for the cold. Someone lays a whip across your back, and they will, you want to take the sting out of it.’

‘Where is he?’ Edward asked.

‘He’ll be here,’ Pierce answered as Edward scanned the crowd for his father. ‘Edward, if you don’t want to ride, that’s OK. You understand? There’s no shame in changing your mind. Hell, wish I’d have done so plenty of times.’

‘I’m not scared, Ben. I want it to start. That’s all. Where is he?’

Edward grinned as his father pushed his way through the riders and horses.

‘I knew you’d come, Father.’

‘I said I would, didn’t I? But I had business to attend to. You ready?’

‘Yes,’ Edward said, and nodded enthusiastically. Radcliffe glanced at Pierce, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Who knew if the lad could stay the course?

Pierce gave the boy a hoist into the saddle. The riders were making their way to the start line.

‘They’ll use the whip on their horses and on you,’ Pierce reminded him.

‘You don’t need a whip on this horse. He’ll run for you without one. Remember what I told you,’ said Radcliffe.

The boy had already done as Pierce and his father had coached him. He held a handful of mane and then wrapped the reins around wrist and hand. Nothing would dislodge his grip, and he had a free arm to ward off any blows struck against him.

Radcliffe covered his son’s hand with his own. ‘Stay away from the pack. Don’t mix in with them. You hold back and choose your moment. Once they break through the valley you’ll be out of sight. That’s when it’s dangerous. You’ll get to the farm walls; they’ll jostle and make mistakes. Those walls are high: you need to get through the open gate.’ He could feel the concern creeping into his voice. He smiled and patted his son’s leg. ‘Five miles and you’re home.’

Kingsley’s voice bellowed over the hubbub of bookmakers and gamblers. The betting was fierce but Kingsley’s presence on the back of a trap gathered their attention. ‘To the line! To the line!’

‘You’ll be here, Father? At the finish? I’m going to win for you!’ said Edward as he controlled the skittish horse that sensed the excitement of the moment.

‘Of course!’ Radcliffe said, but saw the look of doubt on Edward’s face. ‘I promise, son. I’ll be here.’

Pierce had the last word. ‘Stay away from that man,’ he said, nodding towards Belmont. ‘He doesn’t like poetry.’

*

Outside Radcliffe’s house a horse-drawn cab pulled up and a neatly dressed man hurried to the front door, instructing the cab driver to wait. The man banged hard with his fist and pulled the bell chime with unmistakable urgency. The cab driver watched as he repeated his actions until a flustered woman opened the door, causing the man to doff his bowler hat. The scowling woman looked to be the housekeeper and vigorously shook her head at his questioning. Without bidding the woman farewell the fare climbed back into the cab and instructed the driver to proceed with all haste to the hundred guineas race.

*

Kingsley held a large patterned red handkerchief above his head. He teased the moment, watching the line of snorting sweating horses straining for the off, their veins pumping with blood. Edward Radcliffe looked across the tense men to his friend Lawrence Baxter, but that young man only gave him a brief nod and a worried smile and then, like the others, fixed his eyes on Kingsley’s lifted handkerchief.

His arm swung down. ‘Go on with you then!’

The horses lunged into the wind and stinging rain.

For the first half-mile the pack nudged and barged their way forward, each rider finding the space he needed. It didn’t take long for the first whippings to take place and Edward steered his father’s hunter into open space. The horse wanted to surge ahead but the boy kept it on a tight rein and a steady rhythm with his hands and body, controlling its urgent energy, letting the horse feel his mastery. Other riders’ aggression caused their horses to veer away and two men had already been unseated, their horses barging and getting in the way. He saw Lawrence Baxter take a whip across his shoulders which made him heave on the reins. Had his friend not been such a good horseman he would have surely fallen beneath the pounding hooves.

At the mile-and-a-half turn there were only eight riders still in the saddle and Edward’s strategy had kept him on the flank in fourth place. He saw Lawrence pull up his horse; it had gone lame. The desperation on his friend’s face said it all, but he saw Edward looking back over his shoulder and pumped a fist in the air, urging the sixteen-year-old boy on.

Two riders boxed Belmont in. It was obviously a strategy they had decided upon, knowing the cavalryman was the better rider. As one laid his whip across Belmont’s neck, the other barged his horse. Through the tears that streamed from the cold, Edward saw that Belmont barely flinched. He let the man strike twice more, then, allowing him to raise his arm a third time, Belmont snatched the whip before it struck again. He laid its grip across the man’s face in a wicked slash that yielded a scream of pain as the man’s cheek was split open. Unable to control the horse he veered away.

Those riders had slowed Belmont’s progress. Edward lengthened his horse’s stride. They were at the farm turn where the surviving riders would want to be the first through the open gate. The horse gathered pace. Edward knew his father’s horse had not yet reached its full stride. He was closing in on Belmont, watching as he let his second attacker move slightly ahead. The cavalryman leaned in the saddle and reached down, his hand slipping beneath the saddle flap. His fingers found the slide bar that held the stirrup leather and a moment later the straps had fallen free and the man’s unbalanced weight nearly threw him from the horse. His skill kept him in the saddle a moment longer but the vicious beating he took from Belmont’s whip couldn’t be avoided. He fell from the horse.

Belmont’s horse’s rear hooves nearly took the man’s head off as he tumbled on the ground, arms thrown across his face. Edward sucked in the cold air, felt the raw bite in his lungs. Fear and excitement surged through him. He was fifteen feet to one side of Belmont. And then they were level.

*

Pierce and Radcliffe clambered on to rising ground. Breathless, they both held binoculars to their eyes.

‘Five riders in the front! Where is he?’ Radcliffe gasped. The exertion to get to the vantage point caused their hands to tremble: both men calmed their breathing and kept track of the distant specks that were the horsemen.

‘There he is! See him? They’re heading for the farm. He’s level with Belmont!’ Pierce said.

Radcliffe concentrated on the distant figure of his son. ‘No... He’s taken the lead.’

‘I’ll be damned, said Pierce, ‘he can win this thing.’

And then the riders disappeared from view.

But Radcliffe’s attention was elsewhere. He watched the perspiring man in the bowler hat clamber out of the cab and bend into the hillside as he scrambled up to reach him.

*

Edward had gained a horse’s length on Belmont, but he could sense the cavalryman’s horse was likely to out-pace even his father’s strong hunter. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the snorting beast was drawing level, its pounding hooves tearing up the ground. Belmont’s shirt was flecked with blood and, like Edward, tears smeared his cheeks.

Edward was determined to keep his line. Three hundred yards ahead stone walls, six feet high, barred their way, but it was the open gate they wanted.

Belmont yelled something at him. Edward turned his head slightly, wanting to hear.

‘All right, boy! ALL RIGHT!’ Belmont cried, a smile creasing his face, loving the madness of it all. Wanting the boy to be in contention.

He whipped his horse and then barged into Edward. A hard swerve that might have knocked a heavier man free of stirrup and saddle. But Edward was half-raised, beautifully balanced, arms pumping, giving his horse its rhythm. He was lighter and more agile than the other riders and it was Belmont whose body swayed, causing his horse to fall back a pace or two, and veer a couple of feet away.

The gate. Edward needed the open gate. With a hundred yards to go he saw that it was closed. They’d failed to open it. The five cross-bar struts denying him the chance to block Belmont and pull further ahead. His brief hesitation communicated itself to the horse, which momentarily missed a beat in its stride. Belmont pulled level.

‘Come on, boy! Come on! Use your spurs! Come on!’ he spat. And then he was two strides ahead. And then three, the snap of the whip on his horse.

Edward held his nerve, and eased the reins. The horse surged. Belmont had the line for jumping the gate; Edward nudged a knee into the horse’s side and it angled away. Even from the saddle the wall seemed massive, but if he could be the first to jump he would gain a half-dozen strides on Belmont.